


Oh, What a Bore to Be So Adored

by ryguy



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Canon-Typical Behavior, Catholic Guilt, Catholic Imagery, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Manipulation, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pining, Praise Kink, Priest Kink, Religion Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:07:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24882046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryguy/pseuds/ryguy
Summary: The gang delves into religion in their own, inappropriate ways. Mac and Dennis, well... they make it work.
Relationships: Charlie Kelly & Frank Reynolds, Dee Reynolds/The Waitress (It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia), Mac McDonald/Dennis Reynolds
Comments: 10
Kudos: 38





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written because I was thinking about Dennis in a priest outfit and my mind wandered and I figured it would make an interesting fic. My beta was **[Tia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cityinagarden/pseuds/cityinagarden)** , thank you so much for tolerating my bullshit.
> 
> Title from "Masseduction" by St. Vincent.
> 
> **Content warnings:** homophobia, (over-)sexualized religious imagery  
>  **Last edited:** 2020.08.20.

**_8 AM on a Friday  
_** **_Philadelphia, PA_ **

Paddy's is barren, in the literal sense. It's unsurprising, really; Frank and Charlie are bickering first thing in the morning again, and it's driving the people away who just want a goddamn rum and coke and not an argument over chemical burns that, in tone, could pass as an excerpt from the newest episode of The Real Housewives. Not to mention, the CLOSED neon sign was left on again, so only regulars know they're even open.

There are at least two and at most four customers at the bar, give or take, easily countable on one hand. An old guy in his sixties has been here for three days now. He's snoring like he hasn't slept in days, with his head propped up against the wall. Drool is dripping down his bushy beard, sticking to the bristles. Dee has speculated the night before that he might be "donezo" and Frank should contact his "dead body hauling" crew because he was for sure hammered to the Heavens or in Hell's sauna already.

What _ever_ — there are more important things happening than some rando dropping dead. For one, Charlie has his hands stuck in a metal bucket, filled to the brim with ice-cold water. There are tiny cubes floating in it, slipping past his wrists. It fascinates the child in him. He chases them with his eyes, too engrossed to pay attention to Frank's rant about some beggar that wanted to mug him for not giving money to the church (like it needs any more money; the renovation finished last week). It's a predictable story: the guy acts tough, Frank pulls out a gun, the guy bolts like he was a bullet shot from said gun.

It's routine procedure in South Philly by now.

A twinge in Charlie's bloody palms reminds him: his hands hurt. Funny how forgettable pain is when your mind is somewhere else.

Time is passing in slow-motion and past the numbing twenty-six-minute mark, it feels fake. The rate at which the ice melts into nothingness before Charlie is the only indicator that seconds are ticking away. Right now, he's like a cat with its back arched, preying, with a need to crush the ice cubes into minuscule pieces with his teeth, grind on them like a mortar. There are maybe two left drifting in the muddy water.

Meanwhile, Frank's perching on the stool next to Charlie, body half-turned towards him, thinking hard about what the next course of action should be. There are two glasses sitting on the countertop between them, both already emptied out. Frank's breath reeks of Coors Light from up close; beer smell is sickening as is, but the diet variant is a new low, even for him.

Charlie's teeth are chattering vehemently. "I can't feel my hands anymore," he exclaims, "holy shit! Why can't you have taken me to the doctor? That dude that gave me candy and stickers and shit for staying still."

Whenever he moves his trembling hands and a cube brushes up against his palms, he hisses in pain. Taking a saltwater bath would have been just as beneficial, and equally as depressing as getting his hands stuck in this bucket.

Frank slaps a hand over his face, covering his eyes in frustration. He hauls his palm downwards, dragging his skin with it. "That was when you got your flea shot, Charlie. He was a vet. You're no animal, anyways, you're lucky he even looked at you."

Charlie moans in distress. "W-What if I freeze to death? This seems, like, totally unsafe, dude."

It was a perfectly logical concern in Charlie's mind — not so much in Frank's.

"Charlie!" Frank groans, "you're gonna flatline either way. A whack ass doctor can't operate the devil out of yer! I'm tellin' you, you have _stigmata_."

So, Charlie, he has stigmata, according to Frank. He insists that Charlie must have pissed God off. The compilation of his sins is a lengthy list that boils down to greatest hits such as never having believed in the almighty dude up above for more than a few throwaway answers in Ms. Klinsky's Bible study class in eight grade, the fact that he questions why people can't just print more money in a capitalist economy, and him not understanding gender roles.

Charlie leans in. "Stag matter? As in, poop?"

Frank shakes his head, his mouth drawn into a thin line. "Stig-ma-ta," he spells it out for him, "We've been over this! 't means the devil's in your body. Gonna bust out like an alien," he gestures violently, flailing his arms in the air, "spewing blood all over the place."

Charlie screeches hysterically at the proposition. "Not cool, dude!" His arms are getting goosebumps, hairs sticking up. "Do I _really_ have to die? I don't think it's necessary for me to die."

The bar goes silent around them.

Frank shrugs it off. "Gonna kick the bucket, buddy."

"Now why would I _kick_ it?! My hands are still in there!"

Frank sits up straighter, adjusting his huge glasses. "Look," he says, "unless I get it out of you, you're gonna _blergh—_ " Frank's tongue lolls out of his mouth, eyes shut, pretending to be dead.

Charlie gawks at Frank with sparkling eyes, a non-verbal canine pleading he had perfected during his time living with him. Frank feels the intensity of the gaze bore into his skull. He blinks his eyes open, staring back at Charlie. It's a staring contest, clearly. Another method to measure their mental penis lengths.

"...You can get it out of me?" Charlie asks in a soft-spoken voice.

Frank nods.

Chalie vibrates with anger and shrieks, "Why didn't you start with that!"

Frank waves his hand dismissively. "Thought 't was obvious. We just need to get our hands on Dennis's bondage crap from his trunk."

Charlie had claimed earlier that messing with the devil and bleeding, gaping holes are Dennis's shtick, anyways (which is true, in its entirety). He pulls back as much as he can, fighting a rising panic dwelling in him by counting the seconds. He gives up after four.

"Oh, no, man, I don't like where this is going," he says. "Is this gonna get sexual?"

Frank furrows his brows. "No. Why would it get sexual? That's nonsense! Nonsense, I tell you. Charlie," he pats him on the arm, "you're like, the son I never had," he says, disowning Dennis wholly to win Charlie over.

"I don't know, dude. Bondage is a sex thing. BMSD."

"BDSM," Frank corrects.

"That. Dennis hurts women with that." He halts for a second, thinking. "I don't _wanna_ hurt women!" The overhead lights flicker. "I mean, let's be real, Dennis is kind of a twink, so he might be the trap in this mousey situation," he grins at his own brilliance, "which makes _total_ sense, actually!"

"Huh?! A mousetrap—? Charlie, what on Earth are you babbling about?"

Charlie groans and pushes the bucket closer to the edge of the counter. "Uhm, you know, pegging? It's a metaphor, Mac told me all about them, there is a trap, and a rat," his hands emerge from the water, palms up, open like a steel trap, "and then when you put the two and two together—"

Then, the front door gets kicked open, and Charlie gets interrupted before he could finish his impromptu seminar on rataphors (rat metaphors).

Mac struts in, with his presence volumes higher than anyone present. Even the supposedly dead guy woke up at how hard he slammed the door open. He is sporting his gray RIOT shirt that no one knows how he still fits into.

"Heyoo~! What's up, bitches?" He glances at Frank, then Charlie, then the bucket. "Only two bitches and a bucket? Are we recreating 'Two Girls One Cup'?"

"Speak of the devil..." mutters Frank.

"Mac! Mac, Mac, Mac, Mac," Charlie begins chanting, "impeccable timing, bro!" He turns to face Mac, pulling the bucket along. "I have st-sting... sting marker!"

Mac tilts his head to the side and awaiting an explanation from Frank.

"Stigmata, you bitch!" says Frank, exasperated.

Mac's eyes widen. His jaw doesn't stop at the floor, it sinks to the basement. For one, he is thrilled that Frank has acknowledged that God _does_ exist and that he is indeed smiting Charlie as they speak. His hand is fishing in his back pocket for the rosary beads he keeps on him at all times. Maybe the priest was wrong about the six week smiting period and the time has now come for his redemption arc. Years later. Like a package getting stuck in customs.

A package of doom.

Mac is sputtering, slurring the words together into an incoherent mess. "What the fuck? What the _actual_ fuck?!"

He whips the rosary out and tosses it at Charlie’s shoulder. Charlie winces at the contact.

"Are those anal beads? That go up the bum?" asks Frank.

"Wha-? No, of course not! This is what I use to do my daily Hail-Marys."

"Okay, bucket boy.”

Charlie whips his head around. “Me?”

“What?! No, you muttonhead. Unless you take it up the ass.”

“I think I would be the cheese.”

“That makes zero sense, Charlie.”

Mac fixates on a spot on the ceiling directly above Frank, awaiting the moment lightning strikes and he drops dead for calling him some made-up variation of a bottom.

"Okay, listen," Mac begins saying, "I don't care about your spiritual whatever. The Lord will show his wrath if you continue spouting garbage."

"There are religions besides Christianity, you blockhead," Frank says, with the intent to mock Mac.

"I am a _Catholic_ , thank you very much."

"Same thing."

Mac opens his mouth to clap back with a witty comeback, but decides to hold his tongue.

Mindless banter will get them nowhere, anyways. Right?

However, Charlie snaps.

"Shut up! Just shut up!" Charlie screams at the top of his lungs. "Just- _goddamnit_ , shut _up_ for a second."

Mac and Frank turn to him with snail-pace slowness. The argument dies down.

Mac sighs. "How did it even happen? Were you perhaps... blasphemous, Charlie?" He poses the second question with suspicion in his tone.

"Oh, well, it all started with soup."

***

It was around 7 AM the same day. Charlie was making creamy cheese soup (from instant powder) in the kitchen at home, re-using the water he and Frank boiled denim in on Wednesday. The house smelled nauseating, not helping the post-glue-huffing fog clouding Charlie's mind. Frank was unclogging or plugging the toilet — Charlie didn't know.

"Charlie," he called out, "c'mere for a sec!"

Charlie continued to stir the sloppy cheddar in the nasty, fogged-up water.

"I can't, I can't!"

"What even _are_ you doing? Isn't it too soon to boil again?"

"Ah, uh, not pants. Soup."

The dish was boiling, stove on maximum heat.

"You're makin' soup?"

"Yeah, man. Soup! For breakfast, lunch... perhaps dinner if we're feelin' hoggish."

A horrendous squelching sound came from the bathroom. Frank furiously pumped, a goop raising in the toilet bowl.

"You know, I was feeling all anxious and wanted to flush a little."

"Oh, I know that feeling."

"Yeah, but it won't go down. This gooey slime is staring me down. I think it's alive."

Charlie groaned, slamming a hand on the stovetop. The slime made him intrigued.

"Fine, I'm coming!"

He turned on his heel, as quickly as humanly possible. What Charlie’s one-track mind didn’t process at the time, was that pots were easy to knock over.

The scorching soup landed on his hands.

Seconds passed.

And white flashes of pain panged his hands.

Charlie let out a scream, akin to the sounds of a garbage disposal. "FUCK!"

He thought he was gonna piss, shit, and cry, all at once. The pain was getting unbearable. He thrashed his arms around, trying to cool them down. He did jazz hands, to no avail. His fingertips were red, hot, and numb.

"Charlie?" Frank rushed out of the bathroom, abandoning the toilet project altogether.

Charlie's hands were full of hives, blood dripping from a wound on his left palm, skin peeling from his fingers. Frank shouted at him to get going, and something about "cool" and "aid", that Charlie interpreted as Kool-Aid.

***

Mac stares at Charlie, dumbfounded.

"You're not _supposed_ to bleed from a second-degree burn — burns don't bleed!"

Charlie shrugged it off.

"Okay, so let me get this straight," Mac says, "Satan invaded your body through the wounds on your skin and now you bear the marks of Jesus on your hands?”

Frank and Charlie nod in unison.

“Sounds like something I read on a Christian forum once about St. Francis of Assisi! Dude was having visions of a crucified angel — that's totally a dude in all the old-ass paintings I saw — and-and he was filled with elation. I _assume_ he was into it. But, he was also suffering a shit ton. Reminds me of when people at The Rainbow-” 

“No, stop right there," says Frank.

Mac stops, obedient as a nun in a convent. He sucks in a breath and waits, patiently.

“...Did you see angels, dude?" he begins, with caution in his voice. "Were they packing?"

Charlie is typically the kid who comes with a ten-year-old's tantrum. He seems to presume that the best line to scream is, "stop pushing your agenda on me! I don't want to have to deal with your dense homo-Catholic bullshit!"

Mac swallows his guttural reaction, per usual. It's not the first time someone has ridiculed his rhetoric or orientation and he for sure does not want to argue over it right now.

"Thing is — Frank needs to cleanse your body of sin." Mac claps his hands together. "ASAP." He karate chops through the air with one hand, firm and fast.

"That's what I was saying to him earlier!" says Frank.

Mac pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a deep sigh. "Doesn't matter."

"Just so you know," Charlie points out, "I have already showered this month."

"I-I can prove it, I saw him do it!" says Frank.

Mac flinches, taking a step back. It's revolting to picture an old man and a rabid bogeyman share bath time.

"First of all, gross. Second, I meant holy water — _or_ , crucifixion."

Frank chimes in, "that's why we need the bondage!"

Mac frowns harder, glaring at Frank. He's mostly sure that they store a nailgun in the back room, which would suffice for a makeshift crucifixion. "Bondage?!"

"Dennis's duct tape," answers Frank.

"Are you gonna sex the devil out of him? That's pretty gay," he says, emphasizing the "T" sound in the word pretty.

"What? No. I'm gonna tape him to the wall." Frank points at a wall opposite of the bar. "That one."

"Are you gonna use a ladder or some shit?"

"Your sissy choir boy ass should help out! Yer stupid fanaticism might be of use finally."

Mac shakes his head. "If you need bondage gear, I can- wait, don't call me a _sissy_ , that's a homophobic slur, that's a hate crime!"

Frank interrupts Mac without a second thought.

"Where even is that bastard Dennis? And where's Deandra?!"

Mac gazes at his shoes. "Den is probably with that single mom from group therapy."

And it comes out of Mac, the words rolling onto his shoulders with a bitter weight to them. He had forgotten what his tongue is supposed to feel like in his mouth and now he doesn't know where to put it. His teeth sink into his lip, chewing on the skin — an innate action. He struggles with the image of Dennis pursuing women, he fights it tooth and nail.

Frank's voice snaps him back into reality. 

"He's into MILFs?"

Mac gives him a nonchalant shrug in response, bottling up everything that sprinted through his head just now.

"Better over age than under." He pauses. "You don't even care about why he's in group therapy?" Mac's voice is light, his lips hardly parting as he speaks in that soft, hurt tone of his.

Besides, the reason Dennis attends group therapy is thanks to Mac's pestering, which he will brag about given every opportunity he gets.

"Not really, no," says Charlie. "Frank, for fuck's sake, just text him!"

As if some greater power had heard the desperate cries of Charlie, the twins show up. Dee pushes the door open, Dennis following behind her.

Dennis is decked out in a priest's getup, a white collar hugging his throat and a long dark cloak folding into the crevices of his body. A crucifix hangs low from his neck, and Mac's eyes are naturally drawn to it. Dennis's frame is delicate in a way a marble statue would be, the same rules applying: look, but don't touch.

Mac's thoughts are prancing somewhere along the lines of manic toxic dream boy, and the afterthought that the devil somehow really wears Prada. His mouth hangs open at the sight, the air knocked out of his lungs. The juxtaposition of his despicable personality and that innocent demeanor makes Mac want to punch that pretty face in. More than anything, he wants Dennis to reciprocate the aggression. He wants him to have strong feelings again.

In a fantasy, Mac rakes his fingers through his hair that's velvet to the touch. The bar feels crowded like the backseat of his Range Rover, but it's just the two of them. The backing track is Dennis's playlist and he knows the song playing by heart. It's just a fantasy, Mac reminds himself. An eerily real one, almost as if it could happen any second now.

Mac catches his gaze drifting, like an out of body experience, unable to tear his eyes away from the strands of brown hair falling over Dennis's visage, framing his high cheekbones, and-

Dennis flashes a shit-eating grin at the group. Mac wants his fist to connect with his jaw even more. But he knows, he _knows_ that all Dennis would do is laugh in his face and make him fall all over again. Stupid son of a bitch. And how does that indie song go, the one Dennis unintentionally put on his mixtape for hour-long drives? _A kiss with a fist is better than a kiss with... something._ Mac is certain that the lyrics are on the dot. Absentmindedly, he starts humming the chorus melody. There's an uncertain longing dwelling in his chest.

Mac waits patiently. Dennis is out of his mind with enthusiasm. He boasts, with arms held out wide, "Guess who became a priest-in-training to bang the Catholic cougar's daughter?"

Frank and Charlie cheer him on.

"Dennis, you," says Frank, "you have good ideas... sometimes. Now, I'll tell you what; we could fool God into thinking you cured Charlie."

"Cured... of what? Rabies?"

"No! Stigmata."

Dennis's voice slips into a higher register. "Just grab the stupid nailgun and go to town!"

"But, hey man, we don't, we-we could-"

Charlie gets a little too eager in an attempt to question Dennis about his zip ties, losing his balance, and successfully knocking the bucket over. It collides with the floor with a flat clatter. The water rushes out and floods the decaying floorboards, dripping between the cracks.

"What the hell was that?" Dee lets out a shrill that slips into a groan midway, as she walks past them and behind the counter. "Charlie, you better mop that shit up!"

"B-But my hands!"

Charlie attempts to cool his hands by gently blowing puffs of air on his palms.

"Yeah, go grab a mop with your 'hands' and get rid of that!"

Charlie goes through the five stages of grief as Frank tugs on the sleeves of his hoodie, which feel like wet socks by now. "We gotta put you on the wall," he says. "You're gonna be a star, Charlie."

Dee takes a bottle of Budweiser out of the mini-fridge before slamming it closed. "And Dennis, you - you did not have to wear the costume, you did _not_ \- ugh! Unbelievable." She downs half the beer in one go. "Stupid idiot of a brother."

"Now, now," Dennis snaps his fingers, ignoring Dee. The sound pervades Mac's brain, and, like a Pavlovian reaction, he looks up. "Mac, take off your shirt and lay it on the floor." He holds his hand up, and with a limp wrist, he points at the puddle. "I'm not in the mood to get these Oxfords wet." 

Mac swallows, hyperaware of the way his Adam's apple bobs. His tongue licks over his chapped lips, and it feels bare, dry as if he washed his anxiety down with sawdust. His teeth dig into his bottom lip, a bad habit he just can't kick. Dennis rivets his gaze onto Mac, who's virtually gaping in response. His jaw is clenched and his fists ball up at his sides for just a split second. _Damnit_ , he thinks. He would offer the cloth covering his body and the skin on his bones to keep Dennis warm. Come the rapture, and he would shield him who does not look out of place in the slightest. If the mortal equivalent of that is tossing his favorite graphic T-shirt on the soiled ground, then fine, Mac will do that. Because Mac always comes in clutch.

Except-

Except the sheer concept is _embarrassing_. He has discovered during a night out with the gang that Dennis prefers him to play hard to get (or, that's what Mac's telling himself). Hence, public humiliation and submission are out of the question. However, he toys around with the idea. His eyes meet Dennis's dead-on, and he thinks that maybe he could kneel before him. In private, in a safe, sane, and consensual manner, of course.

He might have said that out loud if he wasn't actively restraining himself around Dennis Reynolds, the reincarnation of Lucifer, sent to tempt him to bite into his rotten _fucking_ Adam’s apple-

_Lord have mercy_ , Mac thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **\+ author's note**  
>  I'm an atheist! Don't care about Catholicism apart from the aesthetic. I just wanted to amplify Mac's fanaticism and tie it in with his quasi-devotion to Dennis. I'm also gay, so jot that down. This cold open came out shorter than expected, but I promise to bring more gay and more guilt in the upcoming chapter(s).
> 
> **Heavily edited** twice on 2020.08.20. because I was unhappy with the writing. Fixing clunky wording, tense inconsistencies, all that good stuff. Hope it's not too upsetting for people who enjoyed the initial rendition :-(


	2. II.

The gang makes a feeble effort to coerce Dennis to change out of his quote-unquote "off-putting, queer-catholic" outfit. Dennis, per usual, finds a justification for wearing it, saying that it's "perfectly normal for a fetching young man to dress up on occasion," and, he couldn't forget adding an insult, a generous dollop of salt to the wound, "not that any of them would know what dressing nice entails", which Dee takes offense to. One couldn't even begin to deny that they are related, taking one look at how in over their heads they are about looking good; vanity at its finest. They have dressed out of the same closet on more instances than one could count on their hands and it somehow still became a competition to look better than the other.

Frank, for one, does not care at all about Dennis. One, because Dennis is acting up for attention, he can say that much with utmost certainty, and two, because he is fixated on securing Charlie to a wall and reenacting the crucifixion of Christ for a quick cash grab. 

_Charlie_ , who is currently dissociating and blocking out Dennis's stupid smart monologue and Dee's bird cawing, just nods and gives a knowing grin. What does he know? Nobody knows, not even himself, most likely.

He points a finger at Dennis. "You're gross, man. Real gross. Grosser than 'using a toothbrush someone rubbed all over their ass' on the grossness scale." 

Dennis bats his eyelashes, perplexed. "Oh," he says, "so now the toilet dweller is gonna call me names? What's next, gonna call me indecent? I have to laugh." He does not, in fact, laugh.

Mac reaches over to touch Dennis's upper arm through the soft fabric of his robe. _Calm down, man,_ he thinks. _Don't get all fussy._

Dennis flinches.

Mac pulls away.

Dennis's mouth twitches into a smirk. With a calm tone, that is both collected yet spluttering venom, and a biting edge to his enunciation, he continues, "I think I might cry, Charlie. I seriously might." It is unnerving how direct he can be when berating Charlie. "Now shut up, will you? Unbelievable, really."

Charlie begins poorly imitating Dee's voice, picking up a stereotypically girly pitch, "Charlie clean up the mess on the floor—" then, he mocks Dennis's smart-ass tone, "Charlie stay quiet—" Charlie takes a deep breath. "WHAT IF Charlie just wants _you_ to shut up for ONE second and listen to him, ever thought about that? 'Cause, _oh_ , I don't know," he holds his palms up, "he is the devil?!"

Dennis sighs. "Charlie, that's—" a second-degree burn and you should go to a hospital instead of lashing out at me, is what Dennis wants to say.

"I don't CARE what it is Dennis, I just don't!"

Charlie is about ready to pounce on Dennis and push him to the ground in a chokehold while figuratively foaming at the mouth, but Frank puts an arm between them. "C'mon Charlie, let's get you some bondage. And maybe a box of ketamine-laced fruit juice to calm yer nerves."

Charlie is forcibly removed from Dennis's immediate vicinity with the promise of juice and help.

Dennis sits on a barstool and asks Dee for a fruity vodka, "ideally of the citrus variant". Dee feels her phone buzz in the back pocket of her mom jeans before her ringtone plays through the speaker — some dumb techno-pop sensation to Dennis and the chorus of "Jenny" by Studio Killers to Mac.

"Either pick that shit up or put it on silent," says Dennis, "I'm pissed off as is. And where's my goddamn drink?!"

"Hold on," Dee holds her phone up. With a smile, she answers the call. "Hey, Beth. Yeah, no, you’re calling at the best time possible." She laughs. "What? Wait, I'll have to check."

Dee practically drops her phone while scrambling to get to the back office for some privacy.

"Are you seeing this, Mac? That bitch just ignored me. And who even _is_ Beth, and why is she more important to her than me, her own brother?"

"Elizabeth? The waitress, dude. I think they're plotting to kill Charlie."

"Since when does she have a name?"

"Beats me." Mac shrugs. "Might be a code name." He titters, “Operation: Elizabeth. It’s an acronym for something mega cool… like-like extermination and interrogation and stuff.”

Dennis laughs, and he surely thinks Mac is stupid, but it's charming, in a way. "Yeah, because that makes total sense, Mac."

Mac bends over the counter and feels around until he pulls out a bottle of vodka, one that was stashed beside the cash register. He takes a seat beside Dennis, leaning into him a little as he takes a sip.

"What would _my_ code name be, Den? I think Assblaster has a nice ring to it." He taps his finger on the neck of the bottle, glancing at Dennis.

Dennis steals the vodka from his grasp and knocks back an alarming amount. Luckily, he's a seasoned veteran when it comes to alcohol. And it is abso-fucking-lutely not an indirect kiss.

"You wish," he says, with a smile in his voice and playing on his lips, " _Ronnie_."

***

An hour later, Mac and Dennis are on their way to the mental health center that is home to the social therapy group Dennis attends every Wednesday. According to him, it's located on the other end of town. And Mac is nervous, just a bit. Maybe more than a bit.

The two of them are in the restored Range Rover. Everything is the same, the likeness of the interior is identical — it’s the same model, after all. The seats, however, feel different, or maybe Mac feels different, riding shotgun in Dennis’s car again.

Dennis is rapping his index finger on the wheel in time with the song playing on the radio (“Pretty Young Thing” by Michael Jackson, the fourth track on his personal “work route” mixtape) until it fades out, like every other 80's single ever made. The audio is faulty and akin to a slow record player, the radio is playing the song back at [half-speed](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wIKJoNVjTFM). The window on the driver's side is cranked down just enough to let the breeze pass through and caress the gaps between Mac's fingers.

Mac steals glances at Dennis in between counting cars with political bumper stickers slapped on the back. Dennis looks to his right, one hand on the wheel and one on the gear shift. His nails are manicured and his fingers are like porcelain. Mac is staring. Dennis’s right hand is taut as the car comes to a stop at the intersection.

His eyes are blue, pale as his skin, the moment Mac meets them. Next, Mac’s eyes are everywhere but on Dennis. 

Dennis lowers the volume of the radio.

"Den," Mac says, voice cracking, "I still don't know _why_ exactly we're here, and if you refuse to walk me through the plan, I'm gonna leave."

"Mac, you stupid idiot," Dennis's tone isn't as harsh as the insult would demand, "we're in a moving vehicle." He sighs. "Plus you've never been this far from the bar in your what, fifty years? And you can't even navigate public transport for the life of you."

Mac has to admit: points were made.

"I'm forty-two, don't round up. That's mathematically incorrect."

Now, if Mac were to act as bratty and vain as Dennis, a comment would be made on how he doesn't look that old at all, and would no doubt liken himself to some high-end brand wine. But, he reminds himself that he's above that.

"You're forty-two and you rely on your roommate to chauffeur you around? I don't see how that's not embarrassing for you. You deserve to get your age rounded up for being the human equivalent of a leech."

"Why would it be embarrassing for _me_? You're the one who agrees to drive me around in the first place!"

Dennis groans. "Whatever." Bony fingers flex on the steering wheel as he takes a left turn the moment the light turns to green.

"Dennis, according to Google Maps, you were supposed to take a right at this intersection. You can't even navigate your own car, dude."

The urge to let his own tongue slip up and call Dennis "babe" instead of "dude" is growing stronger by every minute they spend together — has been, since high school, really.

"Who said we were going to the stupid therapy gathering?" asks Dennis, one eyebrow raised as he peeks over at Mac.

"You never tell me shit! I assumed you wanted to..." he trails off, "introduce me or something."

"Now why would I do _that_?"

There's an apparent annoyance to Dennis's tone.

"We live together."

"...And?"

“And, I think it’s the civil thing to do in this situation. Introduce your roommate to all those pathetic losers so they can see that you have a social life and that you have someone that takes care of you during your depressive episodes.”

“I can take care of myself, thank you very much.”

“Look, I know you can take care of yourself, you’re like, super cool and smart and—” handsome, and your shampoo smells so good, even though it’s from the women’s section at Walgreens, “—point is: I can _also_ take care of you. How cool is that! Codependency and shit.”

“It’s incredibly lame, Mac. That’s what that is.”

“You’re lame.”

“Your dad’s lame.”

“You’re not wrong.”

***

Dennis parks the car in the parking lot near the newly renovated church. Mac has a gut feeling as to where this is heading.

"This place doesn't open until ten," he says.

"Yes, Mac, I am aware."

"So... are we gonna sit here and wait?"

Dennis digs into the glovebox. His slender frame is leaning over Mac's lap and Mac feels the need to avert his gaze. Dennis's curls sit over the nape of his neck, above his clergy collar. Mac's eyes tow over the expanse of his back, the delicate ridges of his spine—

Dennis yanks out a key, the tip of his index finger through the keyring. It jingles in front of Mac's face.

"Cricket hooked me up," says Dennis.

Mac smirks, showing a sliver of teeth as he bites down on his bottom lip. "Sick, dude."

***

It feels as if they are young again, teenagers skipping class and running in circles with no end in sight and smoking cheap cigarettes Mac rolled in the bathroom.

Dennis saunters between the pews. Mac stays behind, observing from the doorway. Through Mac's eyes, Dennis is the centerpiece to the symmetry of the church. The stained glass window breaks the golden light like a prism, and Dennis is drenched in vibrant fractals of light. There is a strip of yellow across his cheekbones, highlighting the spots where his makeup seems hurried and unblended. Although, Mac can't quite see this from that far. Should he step closer, inches from Dennis, he'll be close enough to see his pores and what he would assume is hesitation in his eyes, beside his own reflection.

The thing is, It wouldn't change anything. Imperfections or not, Dennis is... _his_ Dennis, above all.

So, Mac follows him deeper, striding suit. The vacancy of the cathedral envelops him as he walks towards Dennis, one careful step at a time.

"We're going to the confessional booth," Dennis says, shattering the comfortable silence Mac was ambling in. "I want you to help me."

Mac's subconscious latches onto the word _help_. To him, helping Dennis is a love language of its own, thoughtfully curated over time. Peeling apples with fingertips swathed in band-aids, with a worn-out kitchen knife in the warmth of their shared kitchen... massaging the contents of the newly bought hair dye into the scalp of his roommate as he stands behind him in the bathroom and witnesses his own image in the mirror... and, on occasion, the convenience of sharing a bed at his sister's apartment. It's all part of a structure, Mac tells himself.

Dennis stops, glancing over his left shoulder. The light catches on his long eyelashes, and there's a slight upturn to the corners of his mouth. It's not a smile, no, far from it.

"What do you say?"

"Alright," Mac answers, "Yeah, I'll do it." As always.

***

"Okay, MAYBE Dennis's car wasn't there, hypothetically speaking—" says Charlie.

"It's not hypothetical at all, that bastard's car just wasn't at their place!"

"—but thankfully we got in the apartment through the AMAZING lockpicking skills that I picked up on by watching that Dutch channel that comes on at midnight. Like, dude, who knew it would be so frickin' easy!"

Frank scowls at him, glasses hanging low on his nose.

"You punched the door open."

"I did punch the door open, yeah."

There is silence for a lingering moment. Charlie is holding the door to the bar open for Frank, who's is struggling to haul the hefty plastic bag through. In all likelihood, it is stuffed with Dennis's sex trash; lube, bondage, spare liquor, pills — everything you'd need for a good afternoon exorcism, just shy of the newest copy of the Holy Bible.

"Charlie," Frank says, with that tired yet distinct rhotacism that slurs the syllables together, "I'm breakin' down over here," he huffs out a labored breath, "don't you wanna help? This is all about you, anyways. I'm being very charitable by doin' the dirty work."

Charlie props his elbow against the doorframe, pressing back against the door with his forearm.

"Nah man, no skin."

Frank, being shorter, easily walks by him. "You can punch a lock open but you can't hold a trash bag?!" he says.

Charlie closes the door behind them and turns the sign over.

"It is what it is, Frank. I'm an injured man."

Frank groans and plops the bag down near one of the tables. He climbs on the barstool to the left of it.

"Since you don't know or simply don't seem to give a crap about subtlety, we should just tear this bag right open. What d'you say?"

"Oh, I'm in. I'm totally in." Charlie clasps his hands together and winces, crying out. The knuckles on his right hand are ripped open and the skin is peeling in a truly grotesque fashion. "Argh! Shit, man. Do you think Dennis uses skin stickers during sex?"

Frank is chewing on the plastic, trying to hook the material on his sharpened molars. "What?!" he mumbles out.

"You know like, the skin type! It sticks to the skin, it does look a bit like skin but it tastes adhesive, like when you smear glue on your palm and peel it and try it just a bit to see what it tastes like — but more so it tastes like blood. And Betadine." Scrunching up his nose, he adds, "Do NOT sniff Betadine, it smells like ass."

"Have you been licking band-aids?"

Charlie frowns, creasing his forehead and pouting. Not even a second later, though, he grins, his smile lines showing. "Holy shit!" He laughs, sitting down. "A band-aid, yeah. I've been licking them since I was a kid. The ones with the little animals on 'em taste the best."

Frank grimaces, shaking his head. "To answer your question: no, Charlie, people don't have band-aids on hand during sex." Frank rips a small hole in the bag, pushing his hand in. "Where did that dumb idea even come from?"

"I'm just curious!" Charlie squeals. "This is a sex bag and I'm bleeding out and it would be terribly convenient if Dennis kept a first-aid kit by his twink tools!"

Frank's eyes dart over the contents and catch a red rope with a clasp at the end.

"Aha!"

Distracted, Charlie starts biting the nail on his pinkie. "So, what's in it? I assume lots of sexy things."

Frank seems puzzled. "Rope, handcuffs, flavored condoms, and even more rope."

"Sweet. Tie me up."

The conversation ends short when the door is opened. Dee enters, strutting in.

"What's up, boners?"

Chest puffed out, she stomps her heels on the ground. With her hands curling over her hips, she strikes a pose in a narrow cut pencil dress. It's adorned with crosses and there is a keyhole over her breasts that Frank makes a face at. The hem is angular, framing her crotch.

"Oh," says Frank, pressing his mouth into a thin line, "you again."

Charlie snaps his head up and glowers, face rucking up. "And what are you wearing?"

Dee twists her upper body to show off her good side, sticking one of her long legs out.

"I'm a nun. A sexy, lewd nun." 

"You know, Deandra," says Frank, "it's pitiful when you're copying your brother."

Stating that Dee looks offended would be an understatement. Looking like a bird with ruffled feathers, her jaw drops, opening her mouth several times before forming words.

"What! I'm not _copying_ him, I'm taking inspiration!"

Charlie scratches his beard. "Yeah, it's kinda pathetic, if you ask me—"

"No one asked you!" Dee interrupts.

Charlie gives a dry laugh. "For sure, you bitch."

"Dimwit!"

"Copycat!

"Shut up!" shouts Frank. He whips out a body harness. "Let's just get to work, kids."

***

Dennis turns around, his robe twisting around his waist.

"I want to practice for when I meet that girl here. Cindy? Sandra?" he muses, "I don't remember, actually. But I don't want to come off as clingy, so I'll make it look like a meeting by chance. Since everything is predestined, she'll be _all_ over me, correct?"

Mac nods, although he can't quite wrap his head around Dennis's plan, even with the explanation laid bare before him. The ribbed vault hugging the ceiling runs deep, and Mac stares up in awe as Dennis leads him further. As distracted as he is, he forgets to answer Dennis, simply humming in response.

“Makes sense if you ask me,” Dennis adds, “there is no need for complicated systems if you dig into them psychologically. She'll be like 'oh, you're such a nice youth pastor, I wouldn't mind having premarital sex with you, take me to your apartment and fuck me'!"

"Aren't you supposed to be a priest? The youth pastor is always the gay one with a felony. Not a good look."

"I can be whatever she needs me to be, Mac."

A nervous chuckle comes from Mac. “Whatever you say. How old is she, anyway?"

"Twenty-one, I believe. Why do you ask?”

"She's only twenty-one?! Charlie was right, man; you're pretty gross. That's like, half your age."

"Are you suggesting that I should find someone my own caliber, Mac?"

Mac holds his hands up defensively. "All I'm _saying_ is that you should have gone after the mom. It's a safer bet."

And Dennis hums, almost as if considering it. It’s soft and honest on the shallow surface, but Mac knows that he’s just humoring him at best.

"I prefer things to be high risk and high reward,” he says at last.

Mac allows Dennis to come out on top, to become the winner in this pointless conversation.

Their feet come to a stop.

At the confessional, Mac is under the assumption that they are to part ways. With the latticed opening between them, Dennis will sit politely, gaining excess confidence and charisma from the anonymity of it all. Mac will peek at him in secret, sitting obediently with his hands on his thighs. It is established that it’s a game to Dennis, that he is playing Mac like a fiddle.

Dennis draws the purple curtain to the side, exposing the priest’s nook.

But, he does not enter.

Instead, he grips Mac's wrist, slender fingers wrapping around it. He pushes his luck and positions his thumb over Mac's pulse.

"Are you ready?" he asks.

Mac's heart thumps dully against his ribs. A sharp inhale through his nose and a shaky exhale moor him, and he feels more than sees with his own two eyes.

"Uh, yeah, if you would just..." Mac makes an effort to push Dennis’s hand away, firm but subtle.

Dennis tugs him closer.

"No, no—” he beckons, “come here, big boy.”

Mac is paralyzed. With flitting lashes, he blinks at Dennis, once, twice.

It plays out behind his eyelids like a Fleetwood Mac song. His pleading eyes puncture the tension trapped between them. He lowers his head and peers up from under his brows, which are gradually drawing in and up, lips parting with a soft gasp. He is aware of the implications between the lines and behind the deliberately arranged pet names. Yet, he lets himself be pulled along. His balance is reliant on Dennis's hold.

Being the asshole he is, Dennis trips him with purpose, making him topple forward. It's undeniably a childish move but it works, and that's the beauty of it.

Soon enough, Mac's forearms bracket Dennis against the wall of the booth. Dennis's teeth glisten like the pristine walls of the chapel as he grins at Mac, taunting him. His pupils are dark and dilated, eyes taking on a shark-like lustre. His inner corners glisten with shimmering glitter highlights. Mac can't look away. The very tips of their noses are touching now. The air Dennis breathes out is the one Mac feeds on.

Dennis hooks his index fingers through the belt loops on Mac's jeans. Mac's chest heaves so heavily it touches Dennis's, the crucifix tucked between them. Mac wants to kiss him; rough and tender and needy and warm. Nagging in the back of his mind, he is aware that he hasn't been given permission, explicitly. He knows he wants it, buzzing to move, to _feel_ , but Dennis—

Dennis waits.

Then, he tugs Mac closer and they tip over the edge. It's comparable to the moment one's knees buckle as they're pressed up against the side of the bed, then collapse atop the comforter. Dennis's spine knocks against the wooden wall, but his mouth is drained of words and filled with Mac.

It's a kiss and a revelation. Mac is looking down, at the gap between them, not quite closing his eyes as he dreads waking up from this vivid dream. He sees Dennis's blotchy foundation too clearly, and he can't help but pay attention to the taste of citrus on Dennis's tongue from the vodka he had at the bar.

Dennis is oozing honey with every touch and it's rotting Mac's teeth to their core. The cavity he leaves behind is cloying. Dennis's hands are touching everywhere and not in enough places at once. His fingernails form crescent dents in Mac's skin. Mac's bicep is stroked by Dennis's thumb, along with a backhanded compliment about how badass he looks. _If this is your way of flirting_ , Mac thinks, _then it's not working. Or maybe it's working a little too well and you have drained all the self-awareness from my body._

Mac's head is spinning. Need twists his guts into knots, the kind that holds onto what it's given with brute force. Dennis juts his chin forward and grins against Mac's mouth. Mac curls his fingers under his jaw, clasping the snicker in his throat.

He looks at Dennis with hooded eyes.

"Is this good enough for you? Would that virgin kiss you like this?"

If Dennis is anything, he's arrogant. Arrogant and derisive, scoffing at Mac like he always does.

"You're being too bossy again." In spite of this, his hands continue to rest above Mac's waist.

"Just answer the question, Den!" The name on his lips comes out in a whisper-shout. "Tell me."

The gentle press of Mac's fingers on either side of his throat won't cease, Dennis realizes. It grants him the lead. Mac's imagination toys with the possibility of Dennis's heart rate picking up, pulsing between their skin, all because of one deliberate touch.

"Just so you _know_ ," Dennis begins, "I haven't talked to her yet. Haven't touched, haven't kissed, haven't jerked off to—" Dennis lightly scratches down Mac's thigh, through the fabric of his jeans. "Just observed from the sidelines. Waiting for the moment to solace her at her most vulnerable."

Mac chuckles, breath prancing over Dennis's face. "My God, that's so pathetic." He murmurs the words against his cheek. "You could do so much better than a rebound fuck."

Dennis shuts his eyes slowly. He inhales deeply. His cold, feminine hands push under Mac's graphic tee and settle on his hips, thumbs circling over his herculean abs. It makes Mac's knees tremble beneath him.

"I could, yeah. I could get anyone I want." From his tone alone, Mac can tell he is sizing him up. "And I mean—" his fingers dig into Mac's lower back, "— _anyone_."

"Then why don't you?" Mac says, gripping Dennis by the collar.

Dennis grasps his wrist in a tight hold, daggers in his eyes as they spring open at the action. His all-too-expensive mascara darkens his gaze and it's as intimidating as inviting.

Mac decides he likes it.

"Don't fuck up the outfit or you'll end up ruining the plan! Stupid idiot!"

"Fine," Mac mutters out, loosening his grip on Dennis's collar but noting that Dennis is not releasing his arm. "But FYI, you're the one ruining your own plan."

"You're the one—!" Dennis grits his teeth, biting down the remark. "Just," he breathes out, "keep doing what you were doing."

Mac knows Dennis is stubborn but trying to compromise. With a newfound poise, Mac pulls Dennis's hand to his mouth, kissing over his knuckles, one by one.

"You mean this?" Mac says, in the smallest voice. "I could do this all day."

"Yeah," Dennis swallows, "that."

Drifting into a comforting silence, it's all the more obvious that Dennis is enjoying himself. The claustrophobic nature of the booth amplifies the little noises Dennis makes between each kiss on his hand. The redness on his cheeks is cascading down to every crevice of his lithe body. Mac loathes Dennis at that moment, for not wearing a simple shirt he can slip his hands under and feel the heat radiating from his body.

"Mac," he breathes out.

"Yeah," responds Mac, his voice light as a feather, tickling Dennis in such a way that makes his face glow.

Words fail him. The hand resting on Dennis's neck tingles. He presses his lips to Dennis's once more, now softer. Dennis's thin lips are parted just enough to be considered desperate. Mac grazes his teeth on Dennis's bottom lip, and with a head tilt, he touches his lips to the corner of his mouth. Listening to the sounds spilling from Dennis, Mac concludes that Paradise on Earth might just be real and tangible. 

"You're doing good."

It's such generic praise, murmured into Mac's skin like a prayer. It makes him want to never stop kissing Dennis.

"Good for me, right?"

God _damnit_.

Dennis feeding Mac's growing hunger with targeted flattery is like throwing gasoline on a burning building. Mac leans down and brushes a plethora of sweet kisses over the skin below Dennis's jawline, and Dennis feels smothered. Maybe the building really is burning. He considers hoarding all the oxygen in the room like the selfish, delusional man he is.

Mac's sugary words stick in Dennis's ear and rob any coherency from his thoughts — and Dennis _chuckles_. It echoes faintly in the empty church.

"Jesus, Mac..." His voice is faint.

Mac near groans at that. "There's no higher power right now. Just you and I."

Mac knows it's wrong. He has long convinced himself that he will pray and beg until his knees bruise to repent for loving Dennis.

"Just you and I, baby."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **\+ author's note**  
>  I have committed a cardinal sin... the overuse of the em dash (—) and musical references. I beg for forgiveness. Anywho, I've been DYING to write the chapel kiss scene. Writing good plot really isn't my strong suit, I'm more of a "pointless gay nonsense" kinda guy.  
> I picked the name Elizabeth for the waitress because 1) Mary Elizabeth and 2) it's a common name in Philly.  
> In hindsight, this story might have been briefly inspired by "The Gang Exploits a Miracle", but mainly it's just me wanting to see Glennis in a priest outfit. Please give the girls and the gays what they want.  
> Thank you to everyone who has left a comment!
> 
>  **\+ playlist recommendations**  
>  I have made a playlist on **[Spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0opyZkYCHVFG0EFFAUOC7H)**! Most songs helped with characterization, some of them are related to the religious tones, some are not.  
> I also really enjoyed listening to **[this](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/44i6ie4PChaFQBfMu5HYXn?si=wK6U6i6bQX-gJmQ_TnSGzg)** playlist while writing the yearning filler.

**Author's Note:**

>  **\+ socials**  
>  Come find me on Tumblr [gaydennis](https://gaydennis.tumblr.com/).  
> 


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